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Blue Dragon 1
Blue Dragon 1 is an encounter in Civil War. Enemies * Royal Soldier (100 Gold, 100 XP, 100 Energy, 2 HP) * Royal Archer (100 Gold, 100 XP, 100 Energy, 2 HP) Transcript Introduction Hetti's kiss burned on Nevis' cheek as they led him away, a patch of warmth that diminished with every step till it was just a smoldering ember. Soon it was gone, stolen by the cool and callous air, vanished in his wake like the villagers. He looked back over his shoulder. But no crowds clustered around the receding buildings to see him off. There was only Theadric's sneering face close behind. "Keep moving!" he said. Nevis turned away from his home, the settlement where he'd been born and his mother had died, and swept the landscape with his gaze. Fields stretched to the horizon on his right, a lazy swath of cabbages and carrots. Farmhands bent their backs and dug into the soil -- as though the war was in another world, far beyond their ken or care. One of them spared a glance at the warriors and the boy in their midst. His eyes were dim and distant. Nevis wondered if this was the last time anyone from the village would see him alive, and whether that same disinterested stare had sent Hadric on his way. The forest lay on the left. Wild and overgrown, it mocked the fields where nature had bent its knee to man. Shade and shadow still beckoned. They invited him to run, hide, escape. Perhaps Theadric heard the whispering on the leaves as well -- because he tensed and drew closer. But there was no need. Even if Nevis got away, where would he go? He couldn't return to the village. He'd have to live the life of a hermit, relying on his sling to bring down birds and rabbits for sustenance and predators or enemies for survival. His fingers tightened around the weapon. The leather was comforting in his grasp. A sling, the bag of lead bullets in the pouch at his belt, and the sack of clothes slung over his shoulder. That was everything. All he was taking off into the world and its waiting war. But it was all he'd need to live the life of a vagabond... No. That was stupid. He was no woodsman to make his way in the wilderness. And if he tried, if he fled and they branded him a coward, a deserter, he'd never be able to come back home. A tiny flicker of warmth stroked his cheek, the faintest trace of Hetti's lost kiss. He couldn't lose his friends and his father. So he followed the rebels along the path, to the place where their horses chewed the grass and an old cart rested by the road, its wheels sunk into the soft grass. Heads turned to regard him over its worn side. "Make room," Carolyn said. "We've got one more." Nevis began to scramble up into the back of the cart, groping for purchase -- hands encumbered by sack and sling. "Here." The voice was unmistakable. And if there had been any doubt, the big green hand that clamped around Nevis' forearm would have banished it. A powerful heave yanked him off his feet and brought him face to face with a broad, ugly, lantern-jawed countenance containing a pair of jutting tusks that looked like they could gore a dragon to death. "More fresh meat," the orc said. He winked at Nevis and grinned. *** There's something inherently heroic about leaping. In bardic tales the bold, brash warriors of old never merely stand up when they're insulted in a tavern or around a campfire. They leap to their feet, fists clenched, eyes blazing like the fires of hell or some other suitably impressive conflagration. Nor do the grand chronicles of West Krunan legend tend to describe such individuals as Terracles, Callissa, or Lord Tyranthius sauntering to battle. Instead those mighty heroes leap, hurling themselves into the fray -- showing the world that they fear nothing and are too busy performing great deeds to trudge about on the ground like normal people. This very thought occurred to you a few seconds earlier. It's why you're flying through the air, propelled by magical force, screaming a war cry while allies gasp on the ridge behind you and enemies shout on the road down below. The wind whips at you. It flutters across your clothing and bathes your cheeks with the cool sharpness of pure exhilaration. An arrow hisses towards your face. The world narrows and contracts, focusing on the incoming doom with such intensity that it becomes a massive ballista bolt in the center of your vision, a huge length of wood and murderous metal that will smash your skull to pieces and leave a headless corpse tumbling to the ground. You twist your body. The shaft whistles past, inches away from bursting your left eye and piercing your brain. The soldiers around the wagon scramble, fast and efficient. Their halberds are already up to meet you -- ready to skewer you on sharp steel. More of the archers raise their bows, about to let fly. There's a very fine line between heroism and folly. You're about to land on one side or the other... Conclusion Tessa sighed. She knew that look in %name%'s eye. She'd seen it often enough, for better and for worse. It meant the scion of the Kasan family was about to do something reckless and spectacular. The sort of magnificent feat their newfound comrades might talk about for years to come, spreading legend with each word. Tales would blow across the region like autumn leaves, scattering fear among their enemies, bolstering their friends' resolve, winning new sword arms to the cause. If it succeeded. If not... %name% stood up, exposing himself, casting care and caution to the four winds, and shouted. "Death to Crenus!" %His% voice bellowed across the valley. A hero's challenge, its syllables thrown by sorcery. The intake of breath was palpable. Their allies, the collection of men and women lying pressed against the grass, sucked air and wonder into their lungs, holding it there as though afraid to let it escape. Tessa Tullian had seen %name%'s tricks before. %His% magic, %his% agility, %his% swordsmanship. But to strangers they were fresh marvels. Things they'd only heard of in stories, told amidst the hexameters of epic poems. The soldiers came to a halt. Their wagons slowed and stopped, wooden bodies shuddering. Orders roared from lips. Hands grasped for weapons. And %name% leapt -- soaring aloft, springing higher and further than the most agile felpuur. "Bloody showoff," Hugh whispered. But there was admiration in his voice. Tessa rose on one knee and pulled a green-fletched shaft against her string. Some of the others began moving as well, though most of the local rebels just gawked. This was her fault. It had been her bright idea to take part in minor raids in different parts of the kingdom -- to build %name%'s reputation and in turn strengthen their allies' morale. So it was up to her to avert disaster. One of the archers fired before she could stop him. Her eyes flicked to the next, who was already drawing his arrow back. Hers was faster. It thudded into his heart and made his entire body shake. His bow fell and fumbled, sending the thwarted missile spinning. Tessa fired again. This one hit wood instead of flesh. It quivered in a wagon's bulk, and ruined the shots of the bowmen on either side. Rakshara was an orange flash in the corner of her vision. The oroc ran down the side of the ridge, her long limbs as sure as a mountain goat's. That spurred the others to action. They skidded after her, some slipping and careening in their eagerness, one falling and rolling. Tessa sighed again. This wasn't what she'd had in mind. But %name%'s mind was a weird and wonderful place, and the rest of them had to make allowances. She took aim and fired. *** A fireball whooshes from your fingers. It blazes down at the halberdiers, a herald of your coming. Any half-decent mage with an aptitude for pyromancy can throw a fireball. But in midair, during a death-defying leap? You'd like to see them try. Your aim isn't perfect. A wagon suffers your wrath in lieu of the soldiers -- the ball of arcane flame explodes against it, caving it in like a bludgeoned skull. Hungry flames rage and consume the ravaged wood. Your enemies scatter, fleeing the roaring heat, and allow you to land unimpaled. Warmth hits you in a wave. So does the smell of roasted meat, bringing moisture to your tongue and filling your head with momentary images of a grand banquet. Horses whinny. They gallop away in a chaotic tangle, traces broken by flame or else slashed by a merciful driver. "Roar, gold dragon!" A polearm thrusts at you, beneath a woman's screaming face. It's a clumsy, desperate, artless attack. You sidestep the lunge and her momentum carries her past. A blow from your pommel clinks on her mail coif, finishing the job. She falls into the burning wagon and comes away screaming -- garbed in fire. Another soldier charges. He's on the end of your sword, breastbone thunking against the guard, before you realize he wasn't going for you. He was trying to help his burning friend. The man's eyes flicker when he slides off the enchanted steel, leaving blood and life painted along the length of the blade. It's an easy battle. Just a handful of soldiers protecting a caravan of foodstuffs intended for the nearby garrison. They die so very easily to seasoned warriors, and your ragtag local allies pick up the scraps that fall from your table. Some of your new friends gaze around with horror when it's all over. Their first taste of war's grim delights, of blood, flame, and death. But the others stare at you with awe painted across their rustic faces. You don't need to resort to sorcerous trickery this time. They raise their weapons and call out your name. Category:Civil War